Stranger in the House
by freudian fuckup
Summary: Sirius is always away, and Remus works in a library.
1. Chapter 1

& now you say you've got no expectations  
But I know you also miss those carefree days  
& for all the angry words that passed between us  
You still don't understand me when I say  
There's a stranger in the house; nobody's seen his face  
But everybody says he's taken my place  
There's a stranger in the house no one will ever see  
But everybody says he looks like me

- _Stranger in the House_, Elvis Costello

There was a time when Remus thought about these things constantly. In the dark, sacred womb of his bed, surrounded by curtains, buried in blankets and solitude, Remus would imagine Sirius's mouth like a cartographer might imagine an uncharted continent. He would marvel at the symmetrical curve of Sirius's lips, the sharp-white glisten of his teeth in the dark, the rasp of his tongue and how he might taste when he was pinned down and desperate. Remus thought about these things guiltily, compulsively, but only when his thoughts were his own and unlikely to be interrupted.

Sirius is stretched beneath him, his arms above him braced against the headboard, his legs spread into a wide v-shape. He is temptation incarnate, perfect to the naked eye—but Remus knows better. There is a tiny cut beneath Sirius's jaw where he's never gotten the hang of shaving. There are spots on Sirius's chin and a half-dozen freckles scattered across his endless expanses of skin, mostly in unusual places. Remus finds these flaws, these small indications Sirius is mortal, because they are like fingerholds for his mind, reminders that he loves Sirius, truly, and not at all in the way Sirius makes everyone love him. He loves him with an awareness bourn of years of quiet observation, of careful consideration.

Like everything else, Remus Lupin does not love carelessly.

Of course, this is not to say being dangerously, recklessly in love with Sirius was a decision. It's a tic, uncontrollable as blinking, vital as breathing. It just took years of careful consideration before Remus could justify his own brand of impulsiveness.

Fortunately, Sirius turned out to be impulsive enough for the both of them. Unlike Remus, he never sees the need to locate the moment at which thought turns to action and subsequently cage that moment, keep it closely guarded, locked away in his beating heart until actions shrivel to missed opportunities, a mocking chorus of _what ifs_. So when Sirius kissed Remus, once, at the corner of his mouth, on the couch in Sirius's flat the summer after they left school, it was surprising but not out of character. Sirius was barely eighteen, fierce and scared and alive, all to the point of excess. His hands shook with the electricity of the impending fight crackling in the air, even as they cradled Remus's face, even as his thumb traced Remus's cheek with tenderness, violent in its intensity. What was surprising was that Remus did not pull away.

But Remus had already had years to consider it.

Remus will have to leave for work soon. The only job he's been able to keep is working the early morning shift at a library for one of the universities nearby. It's perfect for him, really, except it pays next to nothing and means getting up before Sirius is even home most mornings. But this morning, _this_ morning is different. Sirius was home before midnight, and they were able to actually _sleep_ together, for once in the most innocent sense of the word. And when Remus's alarm went off, it was Sirius's arm that emerged from the heap of blankets in which they were enshrined. It was Sirius's voice that said "bugger it," and Sirius's warm, naked skin that kept Remus from getting out of bed fifteen minutes ago.

But then Sirius found him beneath the covers, found him with lips and fingers, and before Remus was awake enough to know any better, they were both hard and eager and barely coherent for a variety of reasons.

"I have to," Remus says helplessly, looking down at Sirius's inviting body.

"Of course you don't," Sirius says, grabbing at Remus's hips to pull him back down.

Remus lets out a long-suffering sigh he doesn't really feel.

"It's my _job_," he says, irritated by the pleading note in his own voice, hoping against hope Sirius will let it go.

"So be late," Sirius suggests, managing at last to drag Remus's body against his own.

And of course Remus wants to point out that being late as frequently as Sirius would have him be late is also likely to result in unemployment, but Sirius's tongue is touching his ear, the side of his neck, the inside of his mouth, and he just _can't_ anymore. Because Sirius is hard and wet against the sensitive skin of his stomach, because Sirius is grinding against Remus's own rapidly-growing erection like getting Remus off is _his_ bloody job, because Sirius's very presence has become rare and, therefore, precious. So he presses Sirius into the mattress and kisses and strokes him, and he's only fifteen minutes late to work, if a bit rough around the edges.

It's not a terrible occupation, when Remus thinks about it. He thinks about it mostly while he is _at work_, probably because there is little else to do. There are books to sort and the occasional student to harass, but mostly Remus wanders the stacks like a man in a labyrinth, and everyday he manages to get completely lost before eventually finding his way back to the front desk.

There is a girl who works there every Tuesday and Thursday, with a pretty smile and long, summer-blond hair. She's petite, and when she stands beside Remus, he is very aware of how neatly her body would fold into his, be engulfed by his height. Sometimes, he wonders if this is something he wants, or if it's just something he feels he's missing out on. Sirius does not fold into anyone, and even if he did, he's too long and solid. When they lay together in bed, their knees are always getting in the way, and neither of them can figure out what in the hell to do with their arms. But this girl, Anna is her name, she would fit perfectly in the crook of Remus's shoulder, curve against his chest.

That evening, as he walks home, he wonders whether he ought to buy groceries. There's a shop around the corner from Sirius's flat—because it is _Sirius's_ flat, no matter how frequently Sirius insists that it is _theirs_—and the owner is an elderly woman who says Remus has a kind face. She almost always forgets to ring up at least half of whatever Remus is purchasing, and it makes him feel guilty to be taken care of in such a way. He decides to stop at a sandwich shop instead, and by the time he walks the three sticky-warm blocks to Sirius's building, he is ravenous.

Sirius is sitting at the kitchen table, looking remarkably well-rested. Remus realises with a faint lurch that he'd been hoping Sirius would already be gone.

"About time you dropped by," Sirius says, smiling.

"Have you done anything at all today, oh layabout of mine?" Remus asks, abandoning his sandwich on the counter while he hunts for a clean glass.

"I have. I slept until noon, and then I was naked in a variety of locals," says Sirius, who has apparently made a less than heartfelt effort at clothing himself, wearing only a washed-thin t-shirt of Remus's and, thankfully, his own pants.

"Well, sounds like you've accomplished quite a lot," Remus offers.

"And what did you do to entertain yourself at that institution of catalogued oppression?" Sirius says, coming over to where Remus is standing and poking at his sandwich without much interest.

"I catalogued things, mostly," Remus says, extracting a glass from the last cabinet he thought to check. Sirius is forever rearranging their cabinets and cupboards and drawers, and Remus wonders whether he will one day stumble upon some miraculous configuration that meets his apparently high standards, or whether he will outgrow this, too, as he has so many of the habits he developed living in a house full of cold, expensive objects and even colder people.

"Shocking. Really, Moony, don't you ever stop to consider how you must make the books feel?"

Remus fills the glass with water and snatches his sandwich away from Sirius's curious fingers.

"I can assure you, I do not," he says, settling in at the table.

"Trapped, that's how I'd imagine. Forced to live in predetermined locations, always being grabbed and cracked open and forgotten at the backs of shelves," Sirius says wildly. His eyes are bright and mercurial, and he almost looks young enough to pass for his own age.

"Are they?" Remus offers.

"How would you like to be told where to live based on your last name? Or, worse, the last name of the bloke that thought you up?" Sirius asks with the sort of pseudo-intensity that makes him so goddamn charming when he wants to be.

"Would that be 'g' for God, or did you have another creator in mind?" Remus says.

"What about 'm' for Merlin?" Sirius suggests.

"Or 'd.' Aren't you part French?"

Sirius snorts and rolls his eyes. "Maybe you belong with the 'b's," he says solemnly, taking Remus's hand in his own and leaning in close. "Maybe I made you up inside my head."

Remus feels suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin.

"Am I the sort of thing you find yourself manifesting often?" he asks, casually.

"I'm not sure," says Sirius, releasing Remus's hand and sliding into the chair across from him. "I've never manifested anyone before."

"Well, I can't say much for your taste," Remus says, wiping a stray glop of mustard from the corner of his mouth.

"Hey, I'll not have you disparaging my work like that. I might have got a little carried away in height department, but overall I think I did rather well," Sirius says defensively.

Remus lets out a dry chuckle. "And I suppose the whole 'monstrous scourge of the earth' bit was just an oversight?"

Sirius sighs loudly and passes a hand through his already unruly hair, making it stand on end in places.

"You depress me, Remus," says Sirius.

"I what now?"

"Depress me. Your persistent lack of good spirit and wanton man-lust leads me to believe that you are not, in fact, entirely at ease with your present station in life," Sirius babbles.

"I'm not at ease? Of course I'm not at ease. Don't be ridiculous," Remus replies, finishing his sandwich in two oversized bites. He'd like to dig something else out of the cupboards, but he would also like to be somewhere else very soon.

"I'm not being anything of the sort. It's just that you're never _here_," Sirius says. Coming from anyone else, it would sound clingy and pathetic, but coming from Sirius it makes Remus wish that he _could_ be there.

"I have a job. Just like you have a job," Remus offers sensibly. He has a job, because he can't _not_ have a job. He wouldn't know how to function without something to wake him up in the morning and a reason to go to sleep at night. He thinks he might drift away without the firm anchors of responsibility at either end of the day.

"I don't have a job. I have a task. An objective," Sirius says, getting up from the table in one graceful lurch. "You don't have to work."

"Haven't we had this conversation?" Remus asks. They've had this argument on a regular basis since Remus moved in and Sirius began going on missions with the Order at all sorts of ungodly hours. The volume and frequency with which they have it has been increasing, but the basic premise remains the same.

"Not _this _conversation, no. Do you even remember the last time we were both here and awake for more than half an hour?"

"What about right now?"

"You've been home less than fifteen minutes. And anyway, I have to meet Frank and Alice in ten," Sirius says.

"Then maybe we should talk about this later," Remus suggests.

"When? The next time our paths happen to cross? Shall I learn to interpret your snoring so the conversation doesn't feel one-sided?"

"You just don't understand," Remus says. He can feel himself withdrawing, even as Sirius draws closer to where he is still sitting.

"What don't I understand, Moony?" Sirius asks, sounding tired. "If I could quit the Order, I would. But you know how bad things are. You've seen it as well as I have."

"Sirius, I can't quit my job. I can't. I just can't," Remus says slowly. He hopes that by drawing out each word, carefully shaping each syllable in the back of his throat, he will be able to communicate the things he's scared of putting into words. He worries that some ideas are just so terrible, so unthinkable, that even voicing them aloud might give them the power.

"Why won't you just let me take care of things, Moony? It's not—It's not even some great bloody sacrifice. I'd be paying to have you around, which, quite frankly, would drive my mother mad if she found out, which is reason enough for me to do it," Sirius says, grabbing Remus's empty glass and refilling it at the sink without being asked.

"Is that what you like about me? My endless capacity for irritating your parents?"

"Of course not. That's what I _love _about you."

"Well, your mother's mental health aside, I have no desire to be _kept_," Remus says, trying not to sound bitter.

"You are so bloody stubborn, did you know that? There's nothing standing in the way of our—our, you know, not being miserable all the time, except for your stupid, selfish pride," Sirius spits, slamming Remus's drink back onto the table so that it splashes and forms a puddle at the base of the glass.

It's not my _pride_, it's my survival instincts," Remus says quietly.

He can feel it, the crack in the dike, the building pressure that is about to explode and drown them both. Remus touches the rim of the glass, concentrating on the way the moisture clings to the pad of his thumb.

"Keep talking," Sirius says steadily. He has his hands on the table, but he's barely sitting.

"You just—" Remus begins. He pauses, takes a breath. "What happens if you're not around?"

"If I die?" Sirius says, deadly calm.

Remus doesn't flinch.

"Sirius," he says levelly.

"If my insides are smeared all over a wall somewhere?" Sirius says.

"Sirius."

"If I _die_, bloody cease to exist, what will happen to _you_?"

Sirius isn't shouting, but his voice is like a razor wrapped in velvet.

"Well, what will happen?" Remus says loudly. "What will happen to poor, sickly Remus with his fury little problem and his big empty bed? What _will_ happen, Sirius?" He hates talking about this because he hates even _thinking _about it. However, when he does force himself to consider the possibility, he can't help but realise that even if the whole world ends and there is no one left to dislocate his possessions and poke his sandwiches and make him late for work, he will still have to go on, to keep living. He has to be able to survive on his own.

"Stop it," Sirius says.

"You stop it! Stop acting like my work schedule is the problem," says Remus.

"Fine, then what _is_ our problem, Remus?" Sirius says.

"_This_ is, Sirius. I'm so tired of fighting," Remus says, standing up and grabbing the wrapper from his sandwich.

"It's not our fault!" Sirius says, half-kicking the chair Remus had been sitting in moments ago.

There is a clanging silence of truths unspoken, truths that don't _need_ to be spoken because they're already there and happening. There is a war. They are mortal. There is a spy. They are always apart. Remus places his hands against the cool countertop and concentrates on remembering to breathe.

"I need my job," Remus says quietly. He stares at his hands and waits.

"I need a break," Sirius says, grabbing his coat off the hook by the door.

"What does that mean?" Remus asks. He is almost surprised at the lack of panic in his tone, but in reality, he's not panicking. He finds he's curious more than anything.

"It means," Sirius says, shrugging on his coat. "It means… I don't know what it means. I'm going to stay with Prongs for a few nights. We can talk about this later."

The petty, angry part of Remus's brain wants to scream _when?_ and throw Sirius's words back in his face spitefully. But he doesn't.

Remus stands perfectly still, his fingertips braced against the countertop, and doesn't exhale until he hears the crackling _pop_ of disapparation at his back.

--

The next morning is the same as nearly every other morning of late. Remus wakes up alone, huddled in an unseasonably heavy thicket of blankets, his alarm wailing angrily. With practiced certainty, he gestures at the alarm and performs the first bit of wandless magic he ever learned. The alarm falls silent. Then, it is simply a matter of gathering momentum and calculating exactly how much strength it will take to get through the day. Remus steels himself and rolls over so he is upright with his feet on the floor. It is only then he remembers why Sirius is not there, and the sinking lurch in his stomach surprises him a little.

The day passes at a dull, monotonous pace, for which Remus is secretly grateful. Boredom has never bothered him, and it gives him time to think—not that he is significantly lacking in time these days.

Anna makes tea in the afternoons, and she always makes an extra cup for Remus whether he asks for it or not, and usually he doesn't. Today, she sits beside him and takes delicate sips from the oversized coffee mug she always uses, and touches his knee twice with her small, smooth hand. The second time she does it, Remus wonders what it would be like to take her hand in his and hold it for a while. It scares him to even consider such a thing, but Sirius is gone all the time, and now he's gone because he wants to be, and this girl, this lovely, gentle girl is here, right now, and she's touching his knee with a crooked smile on her face, and Remus realizes in a horrible flash that he can imagine perfectly what she would look like spread out beneath him, all heat and uncomplicated want.

"And anyway, it sounded like something you might like, so I thought I'd see if you wanted to come with me," Anna says. Her voice catches a little on the last two words, but not so much that she blushes.

"I can't," Remus says politely. Part of him feels the need to point out that he probably _could,_ and no one would ever be the wiser, but he's not even certain what she's talking about. Remus never imagined himself to be the sort of man that loses track of a conversation because he can't keep from picturing an attractive girl naked, and the realisation bothers him.

"Oh well," says Anna lightly. She lets out a nervous, fluttering laugh, and Remus thinks it quite lovely, in a way.

She looks around, probably for some way of excusing herself, but an approaching student saves her the trouble. Remus watches her scan the card catalogues for whatever the boy is looking for, and he follows when she slips away into the storage room, in search of some lost volume.

When he rounds the corner, into the dusty tomb of books forgotten, he is struck by how very silent it is. His footsteps give off a muffled echo and the sounds of Anna rummaging through the stacks ring out from a few shelves away. Remus follows the noise and finds her hunched over a stack of medical encyclopaedias. Anna looks up at him, her expression curious and open.

Remus is planning to say something like, "maybe next weekend," or "it's not that I don't want to," because he's afraid she'll stop talking to him, and then where will he be? Probably a lot safer. Only he doesn't say any of those things. He takes two steps towards her, and when she doesn't back away, he kisses her, gently but sure, presses her back against a shelf, and kisses her some more, until she lets out a content sound and pushes him away, gently.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, running his hands through his hair.

Never in his life has Remus Lupin kissed someone without months of careful deliberation, let alone by accident. He's not sure if she's angry, but he's pretty sure that he's going to pass out or throw up on her shoes soon.

"Don't be," she says. "I don't mind," she says.

"I'm _so_ sorry," Remus says again, backing away with his hands raised in submission. He's not really apologising to her anymore, but she's here and the person he should be talking to is god-knows-where. Something in his chest feels knotted and unpleasant, and he wishes to god it weren't so damn quiet, because the hot, guilty roar of his own breath is deafening.


	2. Chapter 2

I want you  
I woke up & one of us was crying  
I want you  
You said, "young man, I do believe you're dying"  
I want you  
If you need a second opinion as you seem to do these days  
You can look in my eyes & you can count the ways

- _I Want You_, Elvis Costello

It's nearly dawn when Sirius comes home. The bedroom is full of cold, blue-grey light, and the curtains over the open window flutter with a cool, early summer breeze. Sirius closes the front door quietly, but the air it displaces rattles the closed bedroom door and awakens Remus from fitful, unwanted sleep.

For the moment, Remus forgets he should be surprised by Sirius's presence for reasons other than scheduling, but even when it occurs to him to be curious, he is placated in a Pavlovian manner by the sounds of Sirius taking off his boots, struggling to keep quiet, coming home. They're the most wonderful noises in the world, because they mean Sirius is safe, that he has survived another night, another mission, perhaps another attack. They mean life will go on for a little longer yet.

The door to the bedroom creaks when Sirius opens it. He hears the moment of pause as Sirius tries to decide whether he is awake.

"Hello," Remus whispers into the half-darkness.

"You're up?" Sirius whispers back, walking to the edge of the bed. He stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a nervous schoolboy, which he never was, even when he was a schoolboy. He smells like blood and rainwater, which explains why he seems hesitant to touch anything.

"Sort of. Not really," Remus says.

Sirius grabs a towel that's been hanging from the bedpost for days, and says, "go back to sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

Before Remus can respond, Sirius is in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He hears the shower being turned on, the clanging of old pipes, the hiss of hot water.

Remus lets out a sigh. He tries not to think about the exhausted pain in his muscles as he rolls to his feet, or the way his bones crack when his weight shifts to the floor. The hardwoods are cold and dry, and the pads of his feet stick to them as he crosses the room. He steps over Sirius's jacket, lying forsaken by the bathroom door, and notices it smells like ash and spell-fire. His hand finds the doorknob and his heart skips a beat as he turns it, wondering if this time he is not welcome, if this time, Sirius will not appreciate the intrusion. That day is coming, slinking closer with every day spent apart, but Remus knows that when it arrives, it will still feel like a sucker-punch to the stomach.

The bathroom is bright and only a little dingy. The tiles are the same sharp white they were the day they were laid, two summers ago. James and Peter spent two days shirtless on the floor, ripping out old tile, putting down new. It was a gift for Sirius's eighteenth birthday.

Sirius is in the shower, facing away from the stream of water, his body hunched in on itself like a wounded animal. The door clicks shut and Sirius looks up, his eyes big and full of adrenaline fuelled intensity. Remus walks towards the shower, calmly, pausing only to pull down his pants and step out of them. Sirius looks on with feigned disinterest. His eyes dart over Remus's body curiously, but they don't meet Remus's gaze.

"Sirius?" Remus says plainly before steeping into the shower. "How were things?"

Sirius's face if tense and there is something gritty and dark scrubbed into his pale skin around his hairline. He looks at Remus, calmly, simply, and lets out a sigh that seems to release some of the energy from his body. Without waiting for an invitation, Remus reaches forward and places his hands on Sirius's hips, pulling him closer. Sirius obliges, his skin warm and soft from the hot water.

"It wasn't good, Moony. It wasn't good."

Remus's fingers twitch against Sirius's sides, and he hates the way this still feels uncertain, even though it shouldn't. But Sirius leans in close, and his lips are damp against Remus's lips, and of course he tastes like smoke. Sirius moves like he is sleepwalking his way across the vast terrain of Remus's body. His hands slide lazily up Remus's sides while his lips press and glide over Remus's mouth. It's the graceful urgency that makes Remus second guess it, the ease with which Sirius melts to his touch. Where there would normally be a struggle there is only yielding and relief.

"You should get cleaned up before the hot water runs out," Remus says while Sirius is kissing the edge of his jaw.

Sirius blinks up at him, his eyes half-lidded.

"Right. Get rid of all the…" Sirius trails off into a vague gesture and grabs the shampoo from the shelf, but he loses his grip and it clatters against the porcelain between them. Remus grabs it before Sirius can reach down, and pours a small puddle into his hand.

"Here. You're tired. Let me help," he says sensibly.

Sirius nods without hesitation, and Remus is relieved. He works his hands into Sirius's hair and doesn't even have to try not to think about the slick, soapy water sliding down Sirius's pale, warm back. It's so much less important than the fact that Sirius is letting himself be touched, and Remus is going to enjoy it.

Sirius has never been stingy with his affections, physical or otherwise. He practically invented the brotherly punch to the shoulder, and was probably responsible for the drunken embrace, as well. But when it comes to being touched, Sirius is like a stray: wary and unsure and uncomfortable. He shied away from Remus too, at first. They would touch and touch and touch, and then Sirius would reach his breaking point, and Remus would find his arms pinned down while Sirius worked his mouth and hands across Remus's wired, appreciative body. Remus was never really in a position to complain, but sometimes he wished Sirius would let himself be touched and cared for too, because otherwise it feels unfair, somehow. Uneven.

The hair at Sirius's temples is caked with something black and viscous, and Remus is scared to wonder what it might be, but he scrubs at it patiently and is grateful for his steady hands. Sirius's eyes stay closed. When he has worked out all the tangles and foreign substances, Remus turns him towards the stream of water and watches as Sirius's face and body are coated with long streaks of grey soapiness before it all drains. It is as though Sirius's outer shell is being peeled away by the heat and the wetness, and beneath it he is all pink skin and twenty-year-old, not battle-weary soldier. Remus wishes that he could take this newly exposed Sirius and cup him in his hands, shelter him from the hardening wind and the danger like wolves in the walls. He wants to keep him tucked away in some secret place where he will always be new and flush and clean and whole.

"You don't have to do this," Sirius says suddenly.

Remus blinks for a moment, then says, "of course I do."

Sirius sighs and his face contorts, but his eyes stay closed.

"No, you don't, Moony. You think you do. You think you have to take care of everyone, but you don't," says Sirius.

Remus opens his mouth but can think of nothing to say. He does, sometimes, feel the need to take care of everyone, but this isn't the same thing. He feels the need to take care of James and Peter and Lily (though she rarely needs it) because they are friends and he wants the best for them. But Sirius, he takes care of Sirius because he could just as soon give up taking care of himself. He takes care of Sirius because he could just as soon give up breathing.

"Go back to bed. I can take it from here," Sirius says, wiping the soap from his eyes. The edge to his voice is unsurprising at best. Sirius has always possessed a certain viciousness, a razor-sharp edge to his brain that he sometimes wields carelessly. It's tempting to blame it on his last name, but Remus knows that would be excusing it. Sirius is mean because he can be, because he is so addictive that everyone ignores it when the claws beneath his skin come out. But for Remus, who is always standing too close, it is a deadly thing. There is no stopping Sirius when he wants to hurt someone, and there is no defence when he wants to tear someone apart.

The sinking cold creeps into Remus's stomach, like a snake in the dead of winter, and he shivers in the steam. He steps back and pushes the curtain aside, and he has one foot on the floor before Sirius makes a sound, a terrible, broken sound, and grabs Remus by the shoulder.

"Nevermind," Sirius mutters, pulling him back.

Remus looks at him, truly looks for the first time in weeks, and he's both disturbed and relieved by what he sees.

There are cracks. There are faults of mistrust and bright, glowing chinks where the light shines through their armour and makes them vulnerable, and they worsen almost daily, but when Sirius's body melts into Remus's, it is clear that they haven't fallen apart just yet.

"All right," Remus murmurs, letting himself be moved, adjusted, moulded to Sirius.

The lines of Sirius's limbs fit against Remus's limbs, and they breathe each other's damp air, and there is so much need between them that the slow-burn of lust is nearly suffocated. Remus runs his hands across Sirius's skin: the small of his back, the sharp edge of his hipbone, the strong muscle of his upper thigh. He pulls him close, feels him, all of him, and is frightened by how desperately right it all feels.

Sirius kisses him, sloppy and fierce, biting at his bottom lip and sliding his tongue into Remus's mouth, wet-hot and slippery. Their legs are tangled, and Remus has one arm braced against the wall behind him so they don't fall, and his other hand is gripping Sirius's arse, pulling him closer always closer, like he means to consume him, swallow him whole. The water numbs their skin when they are still too long so they have to move endlessly just to keep the sensation alive. It's hot, stiflingly humid and everything is hard around them—the walls and the bathtub and the hard beat of water. Sirius's hands are in Remus's hair, just kissing him again and again, as though it's all he can remember how to do. But his body remembers other things, and he is grinding against Remus's hip in time with the motions of their mouths.

So Remus lets his hand slide between them, his long, precise fingers finding Sirius's cock and touching it to make Sirius feel something. He is careful and sure, confident in a way that he is never confident, never with Sirius, and he spends a long time on the feeling—feeling the soft weight, the velvet along his shaft, the hardness underlying it all that says he hasn't forgotten how wonderful and perverse this used to be. Sirius whines when Remus lets his fingers skim around the slick-sticky head, and groans, choking, when Remus strokes downward with a twist, but all the sound is absorbed by damp skin. Before Remus can get well and truly started, they are moving, falling and wrestling, and there is the struggle Remus misses when it's gone.

In a split second, Sirius has the soap and he's sliding it between Remus's legs, until Remus stops him and makes him wait, because they both know how potent desperation can be. Delicately, Remus makes sure every part of them below the waist is slick and soapy. Sirius twitches and shudders his appreciation, but doesn't speak, and Remus kisses him on the temple before turning him around so that Sirius's arms are braced against the wall.

They used to keep count. How many times Remus threw Sirius over some odd bit of furniture, how many times Sirius came home late and found interesting ways to wake Remus up. They stopped counting months ago, but sometimes Remus still does. Sometimes, in his head, he says One. This is one time that we loved each other. One, and tries so hard to remember the way Sirius's arms shake when he's turned on, and the way he kisses when he is about to come.

Before Sirius can complain, Remus is kissing his back, nuzzling his neck, letting his fingers probe and press. They stretch and tease, slide and caress the dark, hidden parts of Sirius's body that make him fall to pieces. Remus can't stop himself from looking down at the place where his body is absorbed by Sirius's, sensitive tissue, red with blood, stretched and pulsing around his fingers, so tight and slick that Remus sometimes thinks he could come just from the sensation. And then he has one arm around Sirius's waist, because he has to hold him still, and a still Sirius is a rare and deadly thing. He is pushing forward into Sirius's body, his cock blunt and wet and rock-hard, more than a match for the token resistance he meets before Sirius's flesh opens, yields to him. There is nothing, will never be anything quite like this again. Even if the world should end and begin all over again, new and unfamiliar, Remus is sure that nothing will ever come close.

Suddenly, Sirius, silent, still Sirius, is talking. Oh, Moony, at first, and then, God, Remus. Because Moony is a friend who you fight with and live with and keep with you all your life. But Remus is a different matter entirely. Remus is a lover, who you sleep with and live for and keep with you inside yourself, so that even when you are dead, you still have him selfishly for an infinite number of eternities, if need be. Remus knows all this. He knows all this because Sirius has told him, in little ways. Sometimes he whispers it into the crook of Remus's neck when he thinks Remus is sleeping. Sometimes he waits until one or both of them are out of their minds with joy and pleasure and every other sensation their bodies are able to conjure.

"S'alright," Remus says loudly, over the hiss of the water and the roar of blood in his brain. He makes hushing sounds, but mostly he is too entranced by the way Sirius's hair sticks to his face and the way his cock feels as it fucks Remus's palm every time Remus thrusts forward.

"Fuck," Sirius says in response, grabbing Remus's free hand where it rests beside his own, braced against the wall.

They move so differently than when they were first starting out. Their motions, which were once clumsy and happy, are filled with intent, purposeful and defiant, daring all of space and time to come between them. Remus thrusts again and again, amazed still that the body beneath his is there for the taking, that he is allowed to look at it, touch it, taste it, fuck it, make it scream.

It's this—Sirius's fingers sliding against the wet tile, Sirius's fringe stuck to his forehead—that amazes him. It's the heavy heat that fills his cock, because Sirius is gasping now, and making small, broken sounds. It's the itch in his fingertips because Sirius's skin is damp and it shines like a mythical thing, a leviathan in the steam-heat, mythical and terrifying and so, so lovely. He's hopeless. He thinks there will never be a time when Sirius does not make him hard, fails to excite him just because he's Sirius and he's all Remus has wanted since he was old enough to truly understand the meaning of the word.

"Don't stop. Don't—" Sirius hisses, though Remus has no intention of slowing down.

In fact, he feels his cock throb at the sound of Sirius's voice, simultaneously rough with need and soft with desperation. He likes being the one who is needed, desired. He likes to make Sirius shake and cry and fall apart when he comes so that Remus can scoop up the pieces and cradle them close, hold onto Sirius's body when he can barely hold himself up.

It's close now, that undoing. Remus can tell by the way Sirius's back is arching into his thrusts and the muscles in his thighs are tense and waiting. And Remus feels it, too. He feels it building at the base of his spine, burning in his knees, threading through his limbs like blood, but thicker and headier.

"You," Remus whispers, "just, you and…"

Sirius nods frantically, reaching back with one hand to grab Remus's arse, to pull him deeper so with every thrust, Remus finds himself as much a part of Sirius as is physically possible. Then Sirius lets out a noise somewhere between a shout and a sob, and collapses against the wall, his arms bracing them both. He spills his release all over Remus's fist, and onto the wall beyond, and it is washed away by the shower before Remus can think to do a thing about it.

Not that Remus is thinking very well to being with. It feels like Sirius's body is humming and burning, tearing him apart with how good it makes him feel. Sirius's blunt fingernails dig in to the back of Remus's thigh and suddenly Remus is coming and coming, doubling over helplessly against Sirius's naked back, jerking and thrusting as he spends himself deep inside Sirius's body. Over the whoosh of the water, Remus hears Sirius let out a shaky sigh, and his head lolls backward to rest against Remus's shoulder.

Some seconds later, Remus eases away, careful to make sure Sirius has his balance. He reaches over and turns off the water with a clumsy flick of the wrist. The moment he steps back, Sirius turns around and his right hand is on Remus's throat, and he looks like he isn't sure what to say next, so Remus saves him the trouble and kisses him, once, at the corner of his mouth.

"You have—" Sirius begins.

"I meant what—" Remus says at the same moment.

There is an uncertain pause before Remus tilts his head for Sirius's to finish.

"You have very interesting views on modern hygiene," he says tiredly.

Remus laughs, and feels the prickly slide of the things unsaid as they recede into the dark.

"I like to think of them as utilitarian. Keeps everything tidy," he offers.

Sirius makes an assenting noise and pulls back the curtain.

They don't talk while they're drying off, but Sirius wraps the fluffier of two towels around Remus's waist, and really, that's all Remus can ask for. When they are both relatively dry and Remus has made sure the water drained properly, and Sirius has used Remus's wand to cast a cleaning charm on his own, they make their way to bed. Sirius insists on fluffing all the pillows and generally being a spoiled bastard, but Remus just smiles patiently and doesn't comment when Sirius gets the sheets tangled.

They lay on their sides so their faces are inches apart, and Sirius's knee is tucked between Remus's thigh, simple yet breathtaking in its intimacy.

"We got there too late," Sirius says quietly, his face never betraying any hint of gravity.

"How many?" Remus asks, because it's all he can ever think to ask at moments like this, and it's something he doesn't mind answering when he is the one stumbling home with ghosts in his eyes.

"Six. Plus a girl. Found her hiding in the cellar," says Sirius.

"She was alright?" Remus asks hopefully.

"Nah," Sirius says, shaking his head and staring down at where his leg disappears between Remus's legs. "They tortured her. She may as well have been on the floor with her family."

Remus feels himself grimace and immediately forms his face into some semblance of neutrality.

"She was covered, just, Merlin, covered in it. Blood and things. Her parents, mostly," Sirius says simply, with no affect. He looks up at Remus then, and his eyes are so large and close, but Remus doesn't know what to say, what to do to make it alright, to make sleep seem like a reasonable option, to make the world seem like a reasonable place. So he does nothing, because the wrong action, he fears, would do more harm than good.

Sirius looks away, but tucks in closer, curling into Remus's body. Remus responds in kind, wrapping Sirius in long, wiry boy-limbs and pressing warm, gentle kisses to the part of Sirius's hair, because it's all he knows how to do. Maybe it's not enough. Maybe it is grossly inadequate and Sirius deserves better, but it's everything Remus can't bring himself to say very often anymore communicated through the whorls of his fingertips and the roots of Sirius's hair.

"I think I'm going to fall asleep now," Sirius says in a gravely voice.

"Go right ahead," says Remus. He doesn't say everything will be fine, and he doesn't tell Sirius he was worried about him, or that he wishes neither of them could be of use to the Order. He flattens his hand against Sirius's back and presses his cheek to Sirius's hair, and stays silent.


End file.
